Statue of Limitations (8 page)

“C
an I help you?” I asked the man on the front porch. He was wearing a clerical collar, but I'm not up on my denominations. All I know is that he wasn't from Mama's church. She's drags me to Grace Episcopal on Wentworth Street whenever she can (which isn't frequently by a long shot). I don't think she's interested in saving my soul as much as she is shoring up my social standing. In Charleston the big three are St. Michaels, St. Philips, and Grace. Since our pedigree isn't quite as long as a roll of toilet tissue, she finds Grace to be the best fit. Their motto is: “There are no strangers at Grace; only friends you haven't met.”

“Abby?” the strange priest asked.

“I gave at the office,” I blurted. “I mean, I wrote a check and put it in the offering plate.”

“Abby, I'm your brother. Toy.”

I pulled the door shut behind me. Toy? That simply wasn't possible. Sure, I'd heard that my
ne'er-do-well sibling had decided to quit drifting through life and attend an Episcopal seminary. But that took years, didn't it? Besides, he only chose that vocation to curry Mama's favor. He never intended to stick it out. And anyway, my brother inherited all his genes from Daddy's side of the family. Toy was tall and lean, with movie star good looks. His thick hair was naturally blond and the envy of every girl who knew him. This man, although tall, was fleshy, like an ex-football player gone to seed. He did, however, have a fine head of golden hair.

“Abby, remember when I poured a jar of honey into the back of our piano and blamed it on you? It took you two weeks to clean the strings.”

My knees went week and I grabbed the lion's head door knocker for support. “What was the name of the gerbil I had in the third grade?”

“You mean the one I flushed down the toilet? To be fair, Abby, I was only five. And by the way, its name was Jolie. You just thought it was a girl, but it really was a boy.”

How should one act when a prodigal brother—uh, make that a Father—returns home? Toy had been the golden boy, the apple of both my parents' hearts. No doubt he would have remained a luminous fruit had not Daddy died prematurely. For the next thirty years my perfect little brother dedicated himself to proving that he wasn't so perfect.
He was quite successful in that endeavor. He seldom called home, never visited, and, by his own admission in the only letter he ever wrote, liked to “get high and have a good time with the ladies.” Most of what we knew about Toy we heard through the grapevine.

Mama's heart, which hadn't had a chance to heal after Daddy's demise, remained broken. Still, she managed to keep a stiff upper lip—perhaps she used her crinoline starch—whenever discussing her son. She didn't fool me, however. I knew she mourned her beloved son, and if I allowed myself, I could a dredge up a great deal of resentment—both toward Mama and Toy. For the sake of my sanity, I rarely visited that basement room in my soul.

“Are you all right?” Toy asked. He seemed genuinely concerned.

I tried to smile. “I'm fine as frogs' hair—heck no, I'm not! Why are you here, Toy? To make amends now that you've apparently found religion? So help me, if you hurt Mama, I'll—I'll—”

Toy started to reach for me, so I flattened myself against the door, like a Carolina chameleon trying to avoid detection. I still have all my own teeth and I don't bite my nails. If he didn't respect my need for distance, he might require a little first aid.

“Abby, I came here to say I'm sorry.”

“You should have called first. We're very busy.”

I saw the look of hurt in his eyes, and I am ashamed to say that I was glad. If Toy had the slightest idea of how much pain he'd caused us, he would never have just shown up out of the blue like that.

“Abby,” Mama called from behind the door, “who is it? Is it the Thomases?”

I froze. Mama couldn't find out like this. She hated surprises, changes of any kind. If she saw Toy without first being prepared, she might suffer a heart attack.

“Shhh!” I glared at my brother. “Don't you say a word.”

Toy never did obey me. “Mama!” he called out in a voice loud enough to wake the dead over in Berkeley County. “Mama, it's me—Toy!”

I heard the door behind me open and then a soft “mew” like a kitten might emit. Before I spun around, she'd collapsed in a pile of crinolines.

 

There was nothing I could do to stop Toy. He carried Mama into the house, and since my fancy-schmancy living room doesn't have a sofa, he laid her on her own bed. Meanwhile the Zimmermans trotted after us, all the while staring wide-eyed at what they probably considered to be typical Charleston tea entertainment. After all, just the evening before, a woman had been bashed over the head in the garden outside their bed and breakfast.

Mama—thank heavens—had not suffered a heart attack, but had merely fainted. Her voluminous skirt and petticoats had saved her from any physical injuries. They had not, of course, saved her from her prodigal son. When she came to on the bed, she clutched at her pearls, meowed like a kitten again, and fainted. Just in case we didn't understand just how upset she was, she repeated the procedure twice.

“I told you,” I snarled. “Now leave.”

Neither the Zimmermans, nor my brother, budged.

“I'm not going anywhere,” Toy said. “She's my mother, too.”

Mama came around the third time. Her eyes were as wide as magnolia blossoms, and her cheeks were just as white. It took her a few tries to speak, but when she did, her voice was calm, almost dispassionate.

“Would everyone please leave the room—except for you, Toy.”

“Mama,” I wailed. “Don't listen to him. He's a snake in a priest's collar.”

Herman had the nerve to step even closer to Mama's bed. “If you can't trust a priest, little lady,” he said, “then who can you trust?” Never mind that Herman was holding Dmitri, who was trying to rake Toy with his claws. When an animal hates you, there is usually a good reason.

Toy cleared his throat. “I'm actually still a deacon; I have a year left of seminary. I don't get ordained to Holy Orders until next spring.”

“So, he's a snake in a deacon's collar, Mama. He'll only let you down.”

Mama sat bolt upright. “Abigail Louise Wiggins Timberlake Washburn. I've had quite enough of that. I wish to speak with your brother alone, and that's that.”

Or what? She'd send me to my room in a house that I owned? She'd ground me from going out with my husband? She'd withold the allowance from herself that I gave her every month? Toy's sudden appearance was bound to twist our family dynamic into an unrecognizable shape.

“The ‘or,'” Mama said, unfairly reading my mind, “is that I'll be disappointed in you.”

“In
me
? Mama, I'm the one who's always been there for you.”

She looked me straight in the eye. “Exactly. Please be there for me now.”

Although I was the shortest adult I knew, Mama had still managed to hit me below the belt. I had no choice but to follow her wishes.

 

The Thomases were a full half hour late, and they didn't have the courtesy to apologize. They did, however, bring a bottle of wine. It was a good California wine, but with a Piggly Wiggly sticker,
which probably meant it was purchased right here in Charleston.

It may be unfair, but beautiful people can get away with murder. The Thomases were disgustingly good-looking. John Thomas was tall, with a wasp waist and muscles that bulged beneath his crisp, baby blue shirt. His wife Belinda was also tall and with a tiny waist, but instead of muscles, she bulged with silicone. Between her improbable bosoms, and lips the size of a taco, she never need fear drowning. Both of them were blond and blue-eyed. But remarkably, it appeared as if John was the one who had to apply the bottle on a regular basis.

To determine if one is a natural blonde, besides the matching cup and saucer test, closely scrutinizing the eyebrows usually suffices. True blondes have to
add
color. And speaking of color, Belinda sported a deep tan, but despite the claims of sunless tanning manufacturers, you can tell the difference. Especially when several days have elapsed since the last application and the product starts to wear off. Belinda, it appeared, had missed a couple of days.

At any rate, by the time the Thomases had arrived, the Zimmermans were back in their chairs, and I had begun to lay out Mama's spread of goodies. The two couples had already met, so ostensibly I could get right down to business. But
first I had to concentrate, a near impossible task with Mama and Toy holed up in a bedroom whispering. I know, I could have just acted the part of an interested hostess—Lord knows I'd done plenty of acting during my first marriage, to Buford, but that was only five minutes at a stretch.

“Would you like some milk with your lemon?” I asked my guests. “Or would you prefer tea?”

The Zimmermans chose milk—no surprise—and the Thomases, who confessed to being vegans, elected for lemon. I had a feeling they would all have gone with beer, if given the opportunity.

Since I'd already chatted with the farmer and his wife, it was time to concentrate on the younger couple. And frankly, it was not hard to look at either of them.

“Where are you from?” I asked, trying to sound casual. What I really wanted to be doing was holding a glass against Mama's bedroom wall.

“California.”

“That's nice. L.A.?”

“Cambria.”

“That's near San Simeon—where the Hearst Castle is, right?”

“Right,” John said. “Have you been there?”

“Yes. I love that part of the country. Cambria is so charming, and as for the Hearst Castle, I've never lusted in my heart so much—except for maybe when I visit the Biltmore. We stayed in this
very reasonable motel where they served us breakfast in bed. Now what was the name of it? It was right on the ocean, and we had a spectacular view of waves crashing on rocks.”

The Thomases exchanged glances. “We just recently moved there,” John said.

“Oh, from where?”

“Santa Calamari,” Belinda said. “Have you been there?”

“I'm afraid not. What do you do?”

“We're travel agents,” John said quickly.

“Estee and I plan to do a lot of traveling when we retire,” Herman said. He looked at his wife as if for confirmation.

But Estee's mind was elsewhere. She poked her blue-black do with a finger, perhaps to stimulate the brain cells. Not that they needed any.

“I've never heard of Santa Calamari,” she said. “Calamari is squid. I don't think the Church would name a saint after squid.”

“My Estee knows everything,” Herman said, with unmistakable pride in his voice.

John squirmed. “The founding fathers did it as a joke. All the streets are named after seafood. There's, uh—Octopus Alley, Roe Row, Pompano Place, Lumpfish Lane—”

“Herring Heights,” Belinda said. John gave her what my children used to call “the evil eye.”

Something was rotten in California, and it
wasn't just the seafood. Something was rotten in New York and Wisconsin as well. No matter. That's why I had agreed to entertain these folks, even before Mama interfered with her tea. Fortunately, I knew just the right question to ask next.

“H
ow did y'all learn about the Webbfingerses' bed and breakfast?”

“You mean La Parterre?” Estelle asked.

“Do they own another?”

“I'm afraid I don't know the answer to that. But Herman and I read about this one in the back of a magazine.”

“Oh? Which one?”

She shrugged and looked at her husband.

“A dairy magazine,” he said, after the slightest of pauses. “
Udder Perfection
, it's called. They have ads in the back for vacation rentals, hotels, and such. Most of the stuff is up in Myrtle Beach, but there were some Charleston listings.”

I turned to the Thomases. “How about y'all?”

John's smile revealed that either life was very unfair or else he had a very good dentist. “We travel agents get tons of brochures. But if we really want to recommend a place, we have to check
it out ourselves. La Parterre sounded particularly appealing, and neither of us had ever seen Charleston.”

“Did any of you keep the ads?”

They all shook their heads.

I turned back to the Thomases. “Did y'all witness the incident last evening?”

Belinda blinked. “Which one?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, there were two incantations that I know of.”

“She means ‘altercations,'” John said quickly.

“There were?”

Belinda nodded vigorously. I was absolutely right; there were no dark roots.

“There was that fight between that crabby old maid and the woman with only one eyebrow, and then there was that couple from New York.”

“Oh yeah,” Herman said. “I nearly got involved in that one. A man shouldn't ever talk to his wife that way.”

For a second or two I forgot all about Toy. “Tell me about both fights,” I said to Belinda. “Which took place first?”

“The two women. At first it was kind of hard to understand them because of their accents—no offense, Mrs. Washburn—”

“Abby.”

“Mrs. Abby. But then I sort of got used to the way they talked—well, screamed really. People don't usually get that mad in California.”

“I'm sure Calamari is a very calm place, dear. Please continue. What were they fighting about?”

“Dead flowers. Can you believe that?”

I couldn't. Wynnell has been under a lot of stress, and she does possess a wee bit of a temper, but she is a mature woman with experience in solving conflicts—never mind that the last time she and Ed had a major tiff, she ran off to Japan to become the world's oldest geisha-in-training. Besides, Marina Webbfingers was a blue-blooded society dame. I couldn't imagine her getting all bent out of shape over wilted wax-leaf begonias. The dryness of her martini might be a serious issue, but not her flower beds.

“There had to be more to it than that,” I said.

“Money,” John said.

Belinda's blond locks opened and shut like a stage curtain when she nodded. “The truth of all evil, isn't that what they say?”

“That must be a Calamariism,” I said, suppressing a smile. I turned to John. “Money?”

“Mrs. Webbfingers shouted that she wasn't going to pay the landscaper for a bunch of dead plants. She said if she had wanted a desert garden, she would have asked for cactus. Then the land
scaper said that she was going to sue for her wages, and Mrs. Webbfingers said that would be a big laugh because she knew all the judges and they would decide in her favor. Then they started trading insults, until finally they were just cursing. Frankly, Abby, I was rather surprised by their language. Well, the landscaper's didn't surprise me as much as Mrs. Webbfingers's did. I'd pegged her for a real Southern lady.”

“She called the landscaper a ‘hankie,'” Belinda said. “What's so bad about that? Anyway, that's when she really blew her pop.”

“Her top,” John said gently.

“Whatever.”

“Could Mrs. Webbfingers have said ‘Yankee'?” I asked.

John winked his answer. It is a good man who doesn't want to embarrass his wife.

“Well,” I said, “calling someone a Yankee, when they're not, can be fighting words around here. But no one would kill over them,” I added hastily. That was sort of true. The War of Northern Aggression is not over for a few folks, but they tend to come from the fringes of our society, and most of them feel cheated by life in general. Wynnell Crawford, however, is not one of them.

“Southerners are strange,” Belinda had the nerve to say.

I counted silently to ten before responding.
Then I counted backward to one. In Spanish. Since I nearly failed that course in college, it took me longer than you might think.

“What about the New Yorkers?” I said, addressing John.

“Mostly she was yelling at him for talking too much—said he'd blow things if he kept flapping his gums. Then he started in swearing. Said some really ugly things—things I shouldn't repeat here.”

“I see.”

The Zimmermans had remained strangely quiet during my exchange with the Thomases. Perhaps they had nothing to share. Just because they heard the ruckus didn't mean they'd been able to catch what was being said, except for the cuss words. On the other hand, they'd seemed quite willing to talk before the Thomases showed up. And, if body language meant anything, the two couples did not appear to be on the best of terms. Of course people can lie with their bodies, just like they can lie with their tongues.

It was my intention to put the Zimmermans back on the spit for a more thorough grilling, when Dmitri leaped off Herman's lap and bounded for the front door. The poor dairy farmer shrieked in a falsetto voice that was, fortunately, only temporary.

My cat's behavior could mean only one thing.
Greg, my husband, the love of my life, was home. Although Greg is a shrimper, and not a fisherman, a good many fish find their way into his nets, and by the end of the day he smells like the bottom two inches of an aquarium—one that hasn't been cleaned in days. Oddly enough, this aroma doesn't do much for me, but Dmitri goes gaga over it. He can smell his pungent “papa” from a hundred feet away.

Sure enough, seconds later the door opened and in stepped Greg, all six feet of him. A well-bred man, he tried hard not to appear startled by the assemblage in his living room.

“If y'all will just give me a moment,” he said, “I'll wash up and be back to introduce myself.”

I grabbed one of my hubby's slimy sleeves. “No need, darling, I'll make the introductions for you. You see, my guests were just about to leave.”

John Thomas was the first to take the hint. He sprang to his feet and announced his name. But instead of extending his hand, he waved. Everyone laughed, and soon the others were up and doing the same thing. For the record, the affable Herman Zimmerman was the last to get up—although that may simply have been because he had more to hoist. Nonetheless, it took a good five minutes for everyone to leave.

They were halfway down the walk before I re
membered to make plans for the following day. “Anyone up for a private tour tomorrow? I promise to show you sights most tourists don't see.”

“I'm a happily married man,” Herman said without missing a beat.

Everyone laughed, but all agreed that a private tour would be just the ticket. We settled on ten o'clock as the perfect time to embark on our adventure. And in a rare moment of mental clarity, Belinda Thomas not only remembered the Papadopouluses, but volunteered to pass the news on to “that cute man and his wife.”

When we were finally alone—except for Dmitri—I threw myself into Greg's redolent arms. “Darling, you wouldn't believe what happened today!”

“Can't wait to hear. You're always a trip, hon. You want to tell me now, or after I shower?”

In the meantime Dmitri was trying to climb Greg's pant leg. No doubt my normally fastidious feline thought he would find fish if he only climbed high enough.

“After you shower is probably best—but I need to fill you in on one thing first.”

“Let me see…your brother Toy has decided to grow up, and to prove it, he just married a widow with thirteen children. Of course now he has to give up watching cartoons all day and get a job.
Hey, I could always use somebody to scrape the barnacles off the bottom of my boat—especially when there are sharks around.”

I pushed myself from his embrace. “How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That Toy decided to grow up?”

“I was just kidding, Abby. Sorry, if I went too far. It's just that I feel like I know him, even though I've never met him. Well, at least I know his type.”

“You know the old Toy's type. The new Toy is in Mama's bedroom.”

“What?”

“He just showed up at the door this afternoon. He's almost a priest now—already been ordained a deacon or something. Remember I told you he was tall, blond, sort of an Adonis type? You've seen pictures, you know what I mean.”

“Are you trying to say he's gotten shorter?” Greg's sapphire blue eyes twinkled.

“No! But he's gained a lot of weight and looks a whole lot older. I didn't recognize him at all.”

“Maybe he's an impostor.” Greg was only half kidding.

“No, he's the real thing. He admitted to flushing my gerbil, Jolie, down the john.”

“Holy smoke, hon. This has got to be a shock for Mozella.”

“What about me?” I wailed.

Greg folded me back into his arms. “Maybe it's an opportunity, hon.”

“For what? To be hurt again?”

“To get to know the real Toy better.”

“The real Toy parks cars in Hollywood because he can't get a job as an actor. The rest of the time he spends drinking and smoking Acapulco Gold—or whatever the latest preferred marijuana variety is.” Dang it. It was much easier when my little brother could be pigeonholed as a dropout and a loser. A penitent prodigal potential priest was a whole different ball game.

“Give him a chance, Abby. Someday you'll be glad you did.”

I grunted agreement. Anything to get Greg into the shower and off my case.

 

Mama is a miracle worker. Despite all the work she'd done on the tea, not to mention the shock of having her baby boy back home again, she whipped up a proper dinner for the four of us. But the biggest miracle was seeing Toy help her in the kitchen.

When they walked out of Mama's bedroom—seconds after Greg got in the shower—Mama had her arm around her son's waist. From that moment on the two were inseparable. When Toy
started peeling potatoes, I'm the one who nearly had a heart attack.

The last time I saw Toy do anything to help around the kitchen was when he was seventeen. He'd been given the simple job of loading the dishwasher. How hard can that be? It's not like he had to chop down a tree, saw a cord of wood, boil water, butcher a hog and render its fat to make soap, etc. But instead of performing his straightforward task—except for having to first unload the dishwasher—my lazy brother rinsed off the dishes and then spray-painted them white. Even the pots and pans. Of course the paint didn't stick. Toy then loaded the dishes in a cardboard carton and put them in the back of a friend's pickup and drove them through a car wash. While trying to unload said carton, the soggy box split open, and every single one of the dishes broke. Mama's favorite skillet was dented as well.

Do you think Toy got in trouble for that? Think again. Mama's baby boy…

“Abby, wake up!” Mama's voice was unusually sharp, so I started. Somehow I'd managed to fume my way into a fog that lasted until we were all seated for dinner. Greg and I were in our rightful places as host and hostess, while Mama and Toy sat across from each other, beaming like a pair of headlights. “Toy,” Mama continued, “is going to
say grace for us, now that he's almost a priest. My son the Father. Toy, sugar, do you think I should call you Father Wiggins, Father Toy, or Father Son?”

“Oh brother,” I groaned.

“Shame on you, Abby.” Mama said, but Toy smiled.

His grace, however, was nothing special. It was the same short blessing Mama taught us as children—one that I've come to think of as an Episcopal prayer, although it probably isn't.

Judging by our mother's expression, my errant sibling had just recited half the Bible from memory. “So you still remembered it, sugar.”

I started the pot roast on its circuit. “Mama, the wallpaper in your old Rock Hill house remembers it.”

“Very funny, dear. You should be nice to your little brother. After all, he's going to help you.”

My heart sank into my stomach, pressing down my bladder. I had a sudden urge to use the bathroom.

“Help me with what, Mama?”